Revenge is Such an Ugly Word
by evilpinkpen
Summary: The Avengers collide with Star Trek, via a pinch of Doom and a smidge of ... Sailor Moon? Say what? Yes, it's as ridiculous as it sounds.


A/N: This is an absolute crackfic that my imagination subjected me to in the bath tonight. Possibly too much information, I know, but I would just like you to understand that even I didn't see the ending coming. Really. I almost drowned. When I made it downstairs alive and my brother found out what I'd been laughing about, he demanded that I type it up and post it. In other words, blame him, not me.

Rating is for language.

**Revenge is Such an Ugly Word**

It was a lazy summer afternoon in Avengers' Tower. The team was sprawled across one of Tony's several well-appointed entertainment rooms, soaking up the air conditioning in varied states of undress and alertness. Natasha and Clint shared a couch and bickered in Russian over the clues for the New York Times crossword, albeit quietly, in deference to the dozing Captain partially hidden beneath a copy of _War and Peace_. Clint scribbled the answers – in pen, thank you very much – while Natasha repaired her manicure and occasionally cast withering glances at Bruce, who sat reading a scientific journal and sheepishly avoided her gaze. She still hadn't quite forgiven him for the two broken nails, though he'd apologized on behalf of the Hulk. Tony held court on the other couch, both feet propped against a softly snoring Thor, and wielded the television remote with single-minded irritation and growing disgust.

"I can't believe this shit. Two thousand channels, and there's still nothing worth watching."

Clint looked up from the crossword with a mischievous grin and opened his mouth to comment, then closed it again with an audible click, his eyes going wide. He bounded off the couch, forcing Natasha to scramble to rescue her nail polish and startling Thor and Steve into wakefulness, with the latter only just catching his heavy book before it made an extremely uncomfortable landing. All three glared at the archer, but Clint ignored them in favor of staring at the theater-sized screen from barely a yard away.

"Wait, wait. Go back," he ordered urgently. Giving his teammate an intrigued look, the billionaire genius complied. "Again. Again…no, there!" Tony inspected the channel that had so excited the archer for a moment, then turned to him with an incredulous expression.

"You've got to be kidding me. A _Starfleet_ ceremony? Do you have any idea how dry those speeches are? Because I can tell you from experience, buddy, the only adequate adjective is _Saharan_."

Clint ignored him with the ease of long practice. "Jarvis, could you zoom in on the back left row of officers? Third person from the right?" The team looked on, curious despite themselves, as the screen obediently zeroed in on a tall, dark-haired man in medical blue. Alone in a sea of respectful military postures and politely bored expressions, he stood with crossed arms and an unconcealed scowl.

Clint's grin had not only returned, it had stretched to hitherto unknown proportions. "Son of a bitch," he announced, his eyes taking on a manic gleam as he began to rummage intently through the detritus on the coffee table. Bruce and Steve shared an uneasy look, while Natasha merely rolled her eyes and turned her attention to her toenails.

Tony cleared his throat ostentatiously. "So…I take it you're acquainted with tall, dark and brooding there?"

Clint paused in his deconstruction of the contents of the nearest bookcase to return the incredulous look Tony had given him earlier, with interest. "You're kidding right? Dude's like my brother from another mother. We were six years in the Rapid Response Tactical Squad together, best friend I ever had."

"Right," Tony agreed with bland derision, "because that was totally obvious. You know, given the way that you talk about him all the time."

Bruce took pity on the archer, retrieving his abandoned comm link from a nearby potted plant and sending Tony a quelling glance. "That's great Clint. I take it that the two of you fell out of touch?"

Clint all but snatched the comm out of the scientist's hand and immediately began scrolling through his address book, answering absently as he scanned. "Yeah, when I got picked up by S.H.E.I.L.D. he decided to hit med school, give the civilian life a try." He smirked. "Told him that would never last." Making a satisfied sound, he thumbed a number and the speakerphone, letting the shrill buzz of the ring tone fill the air.

The rest of the team turned their attention almost as one to the screen, where the dark-haired man frowned even more deeply and glanced down, before fumbling in his pocket and pulling out his own comm. As he glanced at the readout, both brows lifted in surprise, and he raised the comm to his ear.

"He's actually going to answer in the middle of the ceremony?" Steve asked, scandalized.

Natasha sniffed softly. "I see why the two of you are friends, Clint. You share the same refined social graces."

"Shhh!" three other voices demanded urgently, as the man on the screen began to speak.

"McCoy," came the curt and yet drawling greeting.

"You so owe me a hundred bucks. I told you that you wouldn't make it five years out of uniform," was all Clint said, and the man on the screen – McCoy – was suddenly wearing a smirk that matched Clint's perfectly.

"Clinton motherfucking Barton. Not to hate, man, but why are you calling me now?"

"Did you know that you're a movie star? Smile for the camera, Reaper darling." McCoy's eyes widened as he glanced toward the nearest camera. Then his scowl returned, and he gave said camera a very emphatic one-fingered salute. At that, a wheelchair-bound gentleman in admiralty gray gave the doctor a positively Fury-esque glare from two rows down, and McCoy hunched his broad shoulders reflexively in response, turning slightly away from everyone and ducking his head in a failed attempt to make his indiscretion less obvious.

"Dammit Clint, are you _trying_ to get me court martialed again?" he growled into the comm.

"Hey, that was almost entirely accidental. And they dropped all the charges, remember? So, you Earthside for long?"

McCoy sighed at the unsubtle segue, both visibly and audibly. "Couple of weeks. Why?"

"You should come visit. Plenty of room at the tower, high-caliber weapons to play with, marginally interesting company, potential for world-ending disaster at any moment. It'll be just like old times." Clint was literally bouncing on the balls of his feet now, the manic gleam back in his eyes.

McCoy rolled his own eyes heavenward, but couldn't quite hide a flash of eagerness. Still, he kept his tone dry as he replied, "Shouldn't you, you know, ask the guy that owns the place before you go bringing home strays?"

"Nah, Tony doesn't mind."

Tony snorted inelegantly, but piped up cheerfully enough. "Yeah, Tony doesn't mind. Come by whenever."

McCoy went visibly rigid on the screen and closed his eyes, clearly realizing that he'd been on speakerphone the entire time. Five pregnant seconds passed before he spoke again.

"You are so incredibly lucky that I took the Hippocratic Oath, Barton." There was enough threat loaded into the superficially innocuous statement that even Natasha was impressed, raising an auburn brow in reluctant admiration, but Clint just kept grinning his manic grin.

"So, that's a yes?" Another heavy sigh from McCoy, and a glare in the direction of the camera.

"Fine. Whatever. But so help me, if you blow up Manhattan before I get there, we are going to have an extremely unpleasant conversation. I cannot express to you how much I've earned this vacation." With that, the Starfleet officer hung up and shoved the comm back into his pocket, looking pointedly in the direction of the podium and just as pointedly avoiding the eyes of the glaring admiral.

Clint dropped his own comm carelessly on the coffee table and pumped a fist in the air. "Score! You're the best, Tony." The billionaire magnanimously accepted the praise as his due, while Bruce tapped a finger against his lips.

"You know, I think I do recognize him. From the photo of your old team that you keep in your rooms – the medic, right?" Clint nodded, and Natasha glanced up from where she'd returned to painting her toes with a smirk of her own.

"Actually, if you know where to look on the net, you can find considerably more incriminating pictures of the two of them."

In the silence that followed, Clint groaned and pointed an accusing finger at his partner. "I'm almost positive that I know which pictures you're talking about, and I would just like to make one thing very clear. We made a _mint_ off of that bet."

Tony's mouth dropped open as he glanced between the two, and he crooked his fingers at the redhead. "Okay, itsy bitchy spider, hand it over. You know that you can't leave us hanging like that, right?"

"Jarvis, do a search for 'Hawkeye Reaper RRTS Halloween 2326'. And make sure you get the video with audio." Natasha's smirk turned positively vindictive as she made the request, and Clint gaped at her, eyes wide with horror. "I just don't find that it has the same effect without the musical number. Don't you agree?"

Clint groaned again and dropped his head into his hands. "Do I even want to know what I did to deserve this?"

"Two words for you, birdbrain." Natasha smiled with cheerful cruelty. "San Jose."

For the second time in twenty minutes Clint opened his mouth and closed it again without saying anything, resignation creeping over his face.

"Really?" Bruce asked, surprised. "That's all, you're just going to let it go at that?"

Clint fidgeted. "It may be just slightly possible that I deserve this. Maybe." He sent a sulky glare toward Natasha. "I do think it's lousy of you to drag poor Leonard into it. You know that not one of them is going to be able to look at the poor guy without laughing for days after this."

Natasha shrugged, undeterred. "Collateral damage. He's a soldier, he'll understand."

None of the others were paying them the slightest attention at this point, having been absorbed by the spectacle now unfolding on the big screen. Bruce turned a snorted laugh into a cough, hiding his wide grin behind a hand. Steve was blushing crimson and trying to look away, but his eyes kept creeping back toward the screen. Tony was making a worrisome choking noise and turning an even more alarming shade of red than Steve.

Big-hearted Thor, meanwhile, merely turned an uncertain-but-game smile on the archer and announced in his booming voice, "You and your warrior brother are indeed talented songsmiths, friend Hawkeye. Though I must admit, your choice of costume is unusual. Is such garb customary?"

At that, Tony took his first breath in over a minute with a loud whoop of hysterical laughter and fell off the couch, causing Steve and Bruce to dissolve into laughter as well. Thor continued to smile benignly, while Natasha gazed at the video with impassive scrutiny, finally capping her nail polish.

"You know, I've always wondered," she mused out loud, "Did the two of you actually shave your legs when you dressed up as Sailor Moon and Sailor Mars?"

The embarrassed archer had already gathered the tatters of his dignity securely enough to throw out a smug grin and a saucy wink. "You bet your ass, baby. And it was completely worth it."


End file.
